


Once Upon a Weekend in Mexico (Interlude)

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Series: Once Upon a Weekend in Mexico [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Bondage, Filming on Set, M/M, Multi, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-22
Updated: 2004-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom knows he's the kind of guy people talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a Weekend in Mexico (Interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as queenofalostart on LiveJournal.
> 
> Takes place the night that Dom and Billy put Elijah to bed after he's had one too many.
> 
> _"Where you sleepin', Dommie?" He wants to ask, but doesn't want to know the answer. So, he doesn't, just murmurs "Good night," tacks on a "darlings" for good measure._

Elijah's passed out drunk, and Dom thinks he should care less than he does, but he's trying hard not to care or think or do anything but feel. Feel Billy's breath under his finger tips, his chest hitching with something like desire, but more like the kind of need he can taste on his tongue when he bites the inside of his cheek too hard.

"Fuck, Dommeh," Billy says, no _growls,_ pushes Dom up against the wall with one hand, closes the door firmly with the other.

"Sure, why not?" Dom shoots back, the dark hiding his smirk, but it's evident in his voice, he knows it is. He tugs Billy closer, tries to taste that growl.

Billy's not impressed, though, even by the fact that Dom has two hands underneath his shirt and is tracing letters on his skin with his fingernails. For his trouble, Dom now has two hands pushing him against the wall, Billy's lips against his neck, teeth biting down hard.

"It comes naturally to you, doesn't it?" Billy asks, Scottish brogue thick and heavy with drink, raspy from the smoke that enveloped them all night at the bar. The words enter Dom's bloodstream at the jugular and threaten to make him - _fuck it_ \- scream, or pass out or cry or _something._

Instead, Dom groans, feels Billy's fingers flex on his shoulders, dig into the curve of his collarbone and just _squeeze._ "What do ya mean, Bills?" He lifts his arms, tries to reach for Billy's waist, but he's held fast before he can even make it halfway there, Billy's hands abandoning his shoulders to wrap his fingers 'round, pushing down on the leather and metal bands encircling Dom's wrists.

"You know what I mean, Dominic." There it is, his full name, one that people never use to his face, only when they talk about him to others, which he knows they do fairly often. Dom knows he's the kind of guy people talk about. But Billy, Bills, fuck, _William,_ he doesn't care, he throws the word - his name, Dom reminds himself - around like a weapon, like a parent chastising their first-born son for breaking a piece of fine china or knocking up the girl next door.

"Are you _trying_ to break Elijah, or does acting like a bastard just come naturally?"

Billy's grasp is like smooth, strong rope that just won't break no matter how hard you try, and Dom trying now, trying to flex his fingers, but finds that he can't.

"It was his choice, you know," Dom says in between gulps of air, deep breaths shuddering as Billy's mouth and teeth move away from his neck and down to pull open the collar of his shirt. "He called it off."

"Right," Billy replies, loosening his grip on Dom's wrists, fingers helping his mouth to uncover more of Dom's chest, cotton stretching and pulling at the back of Dom's neck. "But that doesn't make much of difference now, does it?"

*

Dom's bouncing off the mattress before he even knows it, Billy's hand firm on his chest and forcing him down down down. Clothing is still strewn all over the bedclothes, shirts and scarves and pants and socks everywhere, being pushed aside, room made for bodies moving heavily, hands pulling on clothing, feet scrambling for purchase.

Billy presses down hard with his knee, pushes Dom's legs apart roughly, jeans scratching, hard and lazy movements that threaten to make _someone_ come right then and there.

Dom reaches up, palms flat against the wall, cheap wallpaper underneath his fingers. "Fuck, Billy." He arches into Billy's planted knee, can't stop, won't stop his hips from grinding down and up and down and back. "You're going to make me come."

"I think not." And Billy's up, leaving Dom alone on the bed, panting and confused and little more than pissed off.

Dom groans, his head thrown back against the crumpled pillows, fingers pressed against his eyes. "What's the fucking problem, Billy?"

Billy's back on the bed, knees and elbows pinning Dom to the bed, mattress dipping and clothing spilling everywhere. Bare skin meets Dom's chin and he rubs his stubble against Billy's flesh, darts his tongue out to lick at it, taste it while he can.

Billy jerks back, hands on Dom's chest, pulling up his shirt, fingers digging into ribs, tracing bone through skin. "You, Dominic, you and your fekkin'…mind games." A flurry of movement and Billy's tugging Dom's shirt up over his head, giving him enough room to move to remove the offensive piece of clothing. Dom hears the whoosh, knows the shirt's landed somewhere on the floor, tossed by Billy, who's now busy attacking his neck with his tongue. Puffs of breath dance on his collarbone and Dom feels Billy's lips move, hears the words "Do you love him?" and doesn't know what the fuck to say except for "What kind of fucking question is that?"

Billy straightens up, nothing but a shadow in the light leaking through the curtains across the room. His arms sweep out, push clothing and bed linens off and away, soft sounds as cotton and silk hit the floor, puddle there waiting for wrinkles and creases that'll take a round of dry cleaning to get out.

"It's a good one, I think." Billy pauses, leans back on his haunches, rubs his palms on his thighs – Dom knows because he can hear the scratch of fingernails on denim. "Do ya?"

From anyone else, it would sound trite, searching, filled with subtext and longing, but from Billy, it's just a question that needs an answer, like, "Where's the sugar?" and "Do we have any milk?"

Dom reaches out for Billy, gives up when his hands are swatted away with a force that he's used to, but still surprising.

"Christ, Bills." He cradles a hand to his chest, feels the whip-crack sting of Billy's fingers imprinted on the inside of wrist. Billy shifts on top of him, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off, the soft-LOUD noise echoing through the room.

"Tell me right now." Billy's voice contains something that Dom hasn't heard in a while, from him or anyone else, a raw, bleeding sound that just fucking thrills Dom to the core. Palms pressed up against the wall again, Dom digs in and bends his knees, tries pushing Billy forward, get his balance off-kilter. Billy falls forward, but it's by design, and before Dom can protest – fuck, _breathe –_ Billy's got Dom's wrists in his hands, thick leather still warm from Billy's body wrapping around Dom's flesh, the buckle cutting into Dom's skin. He fights back, mostly with his hips, pressing them up and into Billy's, trying to get him to crack, to break, to lose it, just for a moment, a second, even.

"Tell me." The leather is tight around Dom's hands and Billy's holding him down one-handed, the other hand snaking down Dom's chest until it's finger-deep in his jeans, pushing and pressing against the soft-hard skin.

Cool fingers over him, around him, and Dom's arching up, but Billy's using all his weight to hold him down, knee across thigh, forearm across bonded arms. "Tell. Me. Right. Now." Each word is punctuated by a squeeze or a push or a tug or a pull and Dom's pretty sure he's forgotten how to breathe, let alone speak.

But he does his best, mouth dry and open and panting, spills out a "Yeeessssss," tries not to yelp when Billy's fingers push further down, nails biting at the inside of thighs, scraping across the base of his cock, his jeans digging into the small of his back with the force of Billy's squeeze-push-tug-pulls.

"But." Billy shifts his weight, his fingers retreating only to make quick work of Dom's pants, button popping and zipper creaking.

A brush of fingers and a rush of breath and Dom's head is pushed back into the pillow. His mouth is dry as he tries to form words and push air out of his lungs to sound them. "But, both."

And there's rumbling, a chuckle almost, and Billy's mouth is moving on his neck, both hands holding down his arms with a renewed vigor. "Both what?"

"Love," Dom gasps, feeling his arms stretch under the pressure, tendons and muscles screaming and cheering. He tries to capture Billy's mouth, fails, nearly whines with the effort. "Both."

"Both?" Billy stills, just for a moment, but it's long enough for Dom to get leverage, push his foot against the mattress and flip Billy over, Dom's bound hands encircling Billy's neck, a flurry of surprise and confusion.

Dom presses his mouth to Billy's before he can start talking again and ruin it all, swallows his attempts at words. Breaks away for breath and a "You, him," returns to the kiss, sloppy and tinged with tequila, hard enough to bruise, soft enough to mean it.

Billy raises his head and careens up into Dom's mouth, a push-chase as Dom tugs him up, feels the leather creak on his wrists. Billy's hands are on Dom's hips, pushing against heavy denim, ripping his mouth away long enough to say, "But he's not here now."

"No," Dom replies, air whistling into his lungs, his hips tilting, trying to aid the denim exodus. "But," he starts, can't finish because Billy's hands are on him, cool fingers ghosting over his skin, not quite touching. "He," he tries again, can't because now Billy's fingers are pressing, tugging, nails scraping.

"Is," Billy finishes, breathes into Dom's open mouth, and Dom swallows it down, dizzy and aching as his wrists pull and skin tears and leather groans and buckles snap.

In a flash of pain, Dom's hands are free and he's pushing and pulling and realizing it's incomplete, all of it, feels ghosts of Elijah's hands on his skin, a broken whine building at the back of his throat. He's comforted by Billy's mouth on his, wishes fiercely he knew how to understand what was happening to him, to them. Thinks he's close to getting it, finally, but reminds himself that hope can be dark and fleeting and false. But, it's right there, he can taste it in the tequila, and it's good and it's worth it and it's _right._

"Yeah," Dom says, feels Billy's lips curve into what he thinks _– hopes -_ is a smile, and for the first time believes that maybe, just maybe. Just. Maybe. Yeah.


End file.
